A Field of Thorns
by glassfacet
Summary: Sherlock notices strange puncture marks on the necks of several women. And then he meets a strange Count. He finds himself caught in a mystery that he must solve alone. The Game is afoot! (With elements of Jane Eyre).
Sherlock Holmes was bored. Worse, he was mind-numbingly understimulated. There had been no post from Irene for him to decode and respond to. Watson was off galavanting with his wife or his patients or both. At the very least, he wasn't there to entertain Sherlock, and that is what mattered. Mycroft hadn't dropped by in months to annoy Sherlock, and there wasn't a case. That was the greatest problem, in his opinion. There was nothing for him to work his intellect over. He had tried doing the crosswords in the paper, but they were far too easy for him to actually challenge him. (Never mind that he's gotten one wrong the other day, according to the paper - clearly the maker of the challenge was misguided or some such thing). And so, Sherlock sat in 221B Baker Street, staring morosely out the window and trying not to feel sorry for himself.

Mrs Hudson bustled up the stairs with a tray of food. "You know," she said, "life isn't just going to come to you, Mr Holmes. Sometimes you need to go out and find it for yourself."

Sherlock paused. "Marvellous idea, Mrs Hudson. What would I do without you and Watson?"

"Remain fairly bored, I should think," said Mrs Hudson. "Off you go. Send a note if you'll be more than a day."

"I'll do my best," said Sherlock absently, his mind running through possibilities. "Perhaps I'll go out in disguise... Yes, that will make things more interesting, by far."

"Try not to get arrested," advised Mrs Hudson. "I haven't the money for bail and the doctor is in Paris til the end of the month."

"And like as not Mycroft will think it serves me right," mused Sherlock. "Right, then, Mrs Hudson, I shall need one of your gowns."

"It'll never fit," said Mrs Hudson. "And you will not go off in the city in one of my gowns. I've seen the results of what you get up to, and my clothes will not be involved in your nonsense."

"Very well, Mrs Hudson, I can see you are resolute," said Sherlock. "I shall have to use clothes I've borrowed from Watson."

"Leave the good doctor's clothing alone as well," scolded Mrs Hudson. "Wear your own clothes, Mr Holmes. It might just do you some good."

"You're spoiling my fun," pouted Sherlock. "I'll wear my own clothes, then. Perhaps I'll find a case."

"I sincerely hope you do," said Mrs Hudson, shaking her head as she left the rooms. "You're driving me batty."

"I'm driving me batty," muttered Sherlock as he grabbed one of Watson's shirts and Mycroft's old favourite waistcoat from the piles of clothing on the floor of his bedroom. He then pulled on a pair of his own - he thinks they're his, anyway - pants and a pair of trousers that had belonged to a beggar a few blocks over who had died of malnutrition and was almost the same size as Sherlock. The Inspector hadn't liked it, but most people were not fond of Sherlock and his antics. He knew that. That was one of the things that made Watson and Mrs Hudson so invaluable.

Fully dressed, Sherlock took the stairs down to the street level, paused to tell Watson something, recalled that Watson was in Paris with Mrs Watson, and carried on to the street itself. He headed towards the docks. There was always something going on at the docks that he could lose himself in for however long it took for another case to show up. So long as he didn't end up as a case, of course. Mycroft would laugh all the way through his funeral if he did.

Once at the docks, having dodged more than his share of carriages, Sherlock began to poke around. Nothing seemed unusual, except that the woman who sold the worst eels in London was wearing a new scarf. How she could afford that with the worst eels in London was beyond Sherlock, but then women in general were beyond Sherlock. Except Irene, but she was a special case, in a string of special cases.

The eel-seller's scarf slipped, and Sherlock could see an irritated looking injury on her neck. Sherlock moved closer. It was too big to be a pair of insect bites, and the spacing almost matched the average human mouth - it was minisculey larger. Sherlock's heart leapt. A case! A mystery to be solved! This reaction was elicited by Sherlock realizing that what he was looking at was a bite with two puncture wounds and no other tooth marks on the neck. The question, as always, was who, and why. Figuring out how would be the easy part.

Sherlock was nearly skipping when he realized that the eel-seller's husband and a couple of men who could be her sons were glaring at him. Belatedly, he realized that he was staring at the woman - who was neither as pretty nor as intriguing as Irene or Mrs Watson - and looked away. He walked further along the docks and spotted three more girls (all under twenty five) who had similar bite marks. Finishing his tour of the docks in great excitement, he headed home.

Having returned to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson handed him a letter from Mycroft. Sherlock was briefly disappointed, as he had hoped the Watsons would write to him at least once during their trip. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to go to the opera with him that night, would Sherlock make an effort and attend? Mummy was going to be there, and it was important that Mummy be pleased with both of them. Sherlock shuddered and bounded up the stairs. He penned a quick note to his brother stating that yes, he would attend the damn opera, shouted down to Mrs Hudson for bath water, and pulled a blank sheet of paper towards himself to write a letter to the Watsons.

My dear Watson, Sherlock began, I do hope you are enjoying Paris. I have been told that it is quite a delight. Please correct me if I am under an incorrect understanding of the lovely city. I am quite pleased with myself. Today, I found myself a new case. I do not believe it to be overly dangerous, but it is a curious one. I noticed during one of my walks today that four women on the docks had strange bite marks on their necks. They all appear to be made by human mouths, yet there are no other tooth marks. I could see that the marks were puncture wounds, not love bites. It is a most intriguing case. I look forward to reading your deductions from my description. S Holmes

Having finished the letter, Sherlock read it over and nodded his satisfaction with the thing. It wasn't often he wrote letters - Watson usually came by every week, and so could be caught up then - but this one Sherlock was pleased with. It certainly contained subtle hints that he would like to be kept in the loop of the Watsons' lives. They were, after all, a large part of his. Having finished, he wrote the direction on an envelope, sealed it and put it in the pile to be posted in the morning. By then, of course, the bath was exactly the right temperature.

Bathed and redressed, this time in his own clothes, Sherlock brushed his hair and straightened his cravat. With a long-suffering sigh, he went down the stairs to the waiting coach, where Mycroft and Mummy sat facing each other. Sherlock looked at his seating options and wisely chose to sit next to Mycroft. Mummy's piercing grey eyes stared through her sons as though seeing their secrets and making them squirm imperceptibly. None of the three of them spoke for the entire trip to the opera house.

Once they arrived, Mycroft immediately spotted a cluster of acquaintances and went over to politic. This left Sherlock with the task of escorting Mummy from the coach to Mycroft's box. They made it halfway up the stairs before Mummy spoke.

"Sherlock, whatever puzzle you have put your mind to this time has made you most pliable," she said.

"It is having a case that makes me more pleasant," said Sherlock, "and if I'd had Watson, I would be down at the docks continuing my investigation even now, rather than being at the opera."

"And where is your doctor?" asked Mummy.

"Paris with his wife," said Sherlock.

"Newlyweds," scoffed Mummy. "They are incorrigible. Your father and I were never newlyweds in that sense. Too sensible to be so ridiculous."

"I believe it is a sign of a lesser intellect," said Sherlock, "though I value the Watsons and their friendship. There is much to be said for being good friends with a doctor and a former spy."

"She is a former spy, is she," mused Mummy. "Between the two of you, Dr Watson will be kept lively into his old age. I am pleased by this. I rather like the good doctor."

"I am fond of him myself," said Sherlock. "You may think it a failing, but I often find that I am directionless without Watson."

"Do not resent Mrs Watson for winning the doctor," advised Mummy. "In such a case, a woman will usually win over a man. You have your fascination, and he has his obsession. That is all love is, Sherlock, and it will do you good to remember it."

"Yes Mummy," said Sherlock. Personally, he disagreed, but then he hadn't investigated love all that much. So it could be that Mummy was correct. After this case, perhaps he would examine the Watsons and other couples to see what love was. It was not, he knew, for him.

They settled in the box and watched the audience as it filled. There was Lady Westenra and her new lover, Mrs Hammond, across the way. From the way they were carrying on, they didn't seem to care that everyone could see that they were sleeping together. Lord Richmond had a courtesan on his arm, but was really eyeing the young Earl of Almont. The people in this society were so obvious to Sherlock, yet it was fascinating to watch them as they interacted. There was so much blackmail in the room it was intoxicating.

Mycroft returned to them just as the curtain went up. He sat on Mummy's other side and fixed his attention on the stage. Mummy turned her attention to the stage as well after glancing at Sherlock and scrutinizing his face. Sherlock didn't bother watching the stage: the actors would be terrible and the plot was far less interesting than actually watching the audience. He noticed that there was a strange man sitting in a box opposite with no companions. Sherlock watched him as the man stared fixedly at the stage, occasionally looking at a book that appeared to be a dictionary. Sherlock reached around Mummy to poke Mycroft.

"What?" mutter-snapped Mycroft.

"Who is that?" asked Sherlock, pointing to the man.

"Hm," said Mycroft. "I think that he might be the Count that just moved to London from Transylvania or some such place. I'll go and introduce myself at intermission."

"Be quiet you two," said Mummy. "I want to watch this drivel."

"Oh please, you've already figure out how the opera ends," said Mycroft. Mummy smacked him with her fan.

"Don't get smart with me, Mycroft," said Mummy. "Now quiet."

Mycroft and Sherlock fell silent. Mycroft returned to watching the opera, and Sherlock returned to watching the audience. The English aristocracy wasn't nearly so interesting as the foreign count who occasionally looked up words in his dictionary. Sherlock wondered if he spoke languages other than English and Romanian, and how he had gotten tickets to the opera in the first place; the thing was notoriously sold out weeks in advance and it was a miracle that Mycroft had gotten the three of them tickets on such short notice. Still, by watching him, Sherlock could tell that the man was relatively new to London, was emulating English style fairly well, and liked bad singing and worse plot. Really, Watson's short stories had better plot than this opera, and he didn't get paid to write.

The first half dragged to a close and Sherlock bounced out of his seat. Mycroft, seeing his younger brother's impatience, sighed and rose as well. "We will be back soon, Mummy."

She nodded and turned her hawkish gaze on the crowd. There were only a few people who knew who she was, and fewer still who were welcome to speak to her. Not that the matrons of society would be deterred by her sharp observations: she had two single eligible sons and they had daughters and nieces to marry off. And the Holmes family still needed an heir.

Sherlock wove through the intermission crowds, catching bits of inane conversation that would have amused Watson, and likely Sherlock himself had he been in the mood. But he wasn't: there was a mystery and he had to have answers to his puzzles as quickly as possible. Otherwise, they simply got out of hand. Mycroft was making his own way through the crowd, stopping to greet people who were important in the scheme of things and therefore important to Mycroft. Sherlock stopped outside of the Count's box and waited with ill-concealed impatience until his older brother arrived.

"You're the older brother, you do the introducing," said Sherlock, shoving Mycroft's bulk in the general direction of the box opening. Mycroft glared at him in annoyance and entered the box. The man - they assumed the Count - rose to greet them with a pointed, white smile.

"Good evening," said the man. I am Count Dracula. Whom might you be?"

"Lord Mycroft Holmes," said Mycroft, extending a hand. "This is my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes."

"It is my pleasure to meet you, Lord Holmes," said Dracula, shaking Mycroft's hand. "And you as well, Mr Holmes."

"Oh yes, a pleasure," said Sherlock absently. "You are from the Romania area, yes? Eastern Romania?"

Dracula blinked. "Indeed. I am from Transylvania, on the border with Turkey. However, I would choose to make England my home."

"Indeed," said Mycroft. "I am curious as to where you might reside now?"

"Molyneux Street, near Hyde Park," said Dracula, handing Mycroft his card. "Do come by for dinner some evening. I should like the company."

"We shall keep you in mind," said Sherlock. "After all, I too get cravings for company."

"Oh?" said Dracula. "Are you alone by nature?"

"I suppose so," said Sherlock. "Most people annoy me."

"Sherlock!" hissed Mycroft. "My apologies for my brother's manners. he isn't often in company."

"No offence was taken," said Dracula. "It is refreshing. Ah, but the play begins again."

"Then we must return to our seats," said Mycroft. "It was a pleasure to meet you, my lord."

"The pleasure was all mine, Lord Holmes," said Dracula, gracefully inclining his head. "And you as well, Mr Holmes. A very great pleasure."


End file.
